Winter in France and Switzerland
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It's no surprise to me that Switerland provides the world with a cadre of elites in a number of fields. It's Swiss-trained guards that protect the pope, Swiss-made watches that garnish the wrists of the most wealthy, and a number of Swiss top the world's design elite. Locked away in the Alps, Switzerland is the elite core of continental Europe. While one might expect a society that demonstrates such sheer ability to also have an enhanced attitude of themselves, I've found nothing of the sort. Switzerland, in my experience, has traded attitude for altitude. It's like France but without the upturned noses, an on-time Italy, and Germany with more humility.
Breakfast atop the Hotel Club gives one a Mansard-level view of La Chaux-de-Fonds. The town is quiet at ground level so there's barely a whisper of life across the roofscape. The breakfast cafe poaches real estate from a Japanese restaurant ("Le beouf de Kobe est arrive") before hungry teppanyaki seekers come for dinner. This results in the odd juxtaposition of shoji screens and rice crispies: Rice two ways. From the warm bellies of townhouses, morning fires bellow smoke out of chimneys casting long shadows; La Chaux-de-Fonds thaws as the sun passes from valley to valley, slowly leaching red from the vista and restoring the horizon of Jura pines to their full verdancy. A brief examination of most shops and restaurants in town reminds one that this is the cradle of Switzerland's watch industry. The Hotel's lobby features no less than 25 individual time pieces, the majority of them protected in precious lucite frames. Watches were the beginning of the man we came to visit and, through the arts patronage of Ebel, also the end.
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The first thing one notices about Ronchamp in winter is the nothingness. White fog hangs so thick that one can scarcely see a few meters in front of them. Whereas the heavy snow in Switzerland renders the visual field as a number of virtual stages receding towards oblivion, Ronchamp's fog is much murkier, more relentless, but still as white as snow.
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It may have been the questionable characters doing business at the bottom of the subway stairs, or perhaps encountering some irascible locals just off the train, but Marseilles stuck me, from the moment I arrived, as a Pirate town. The streets glow halide orange through seaside humidity and although I had no clue where the ocean actually was after arriving at night, one knows that it's definitely there. Staying in a building raised atop 16 peg-leg pilotis did nothing to quell the pirate associations.
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The benefit of staying at the end of Rue. Mouffetard, which terminates into a small market, is a daily injection of vitality. It's quite nice to walk down a street strewn in odd heads of lettuce and smashed strawberries. The ease of access to fresh fruit is great, but paella, roasted chicken, and your choice of three cheese stores also make it an excellent temporary home.
--Posted 04/06/04 03:15AM